The Avengers: Imagines
by Fiera Evenstar
Summary: Every story has blank pages, spaces between the words, thoughts and feelings never shared. It is in these places that heroes are made, or broken.
1. Chapter I: Red Room

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Like, literally, none of these characters are mine unless they so happen to be created OCs. If an OC shares your name, this is completely coincidental, if not a bit cool. No part of this work may be reproduced. This is an original work of fiction.**

 **Dedication:** ** _To the hidden hero in all of us._**

 ** _Chapter I: Red Room_**

 ** _-NATASHA ROMANOV-_**

There was something in the air that made her want to run. It was not new to her to feel fear, but it was unexpected. No, it was more than that. It was the fear itself that terrified her. She was not supposed to feel it. She was not supposed to feel anything. The man with the dead eyes and the gun who had taught her how to dance had told her so.

The redness of the walls reminded her all too much of the flames that had made her alone. A tall man in a uniform that made him look like a crow found her in the ashes. He said that he had saved her, given her a new life.

 _Phoenix,_ she had thought. _That is what I am. I am a phoenix born again from the ashes of a former life._ She had always loved the Arabian stories of the fantastical bird who was consumed by flame and rose up, fresh and youthful, from the ruins of the past. The concept of renewal was a beautiful thing to a girl that was so used to things that were broken.

Of course, renewal was all that much different from rebirth. Within a few weeks, everything in her entire being ached. Her muscles, from her biceps to her heart, were inflicted with pain. She knew in her heart that all that man that had found her in the ashes had done was make her into a shadow of death. She was burned, just like her home, her parents, her heritage. She accepted that she had become ashes. As a Russian, she was proud to show off her battle scars.

She accepted it, this fear, this fear of the Red Room. How odd it was to her hot Russian blood to accept fear, to see it as a normality, to always know its presence but never be in contact with it. She had been warned that feeling fear would burn her again. Of all the things in the world that Natasha Romanov did not want, it was to burn.

"Красная комната," is what the man who taught her how to dance had said when he first showed her the Red Room. Ever since then, the four bleeding crimson walls still managed to elicit the same reaction from her. "'Red Room'. You know why we call it this?"

Natasha had said that she did not. Deep down, she knew that she didn't want to. Deep down, she wanted to run. It was a shame that his bullet would be faster than her pitiful attempt at escape.

"We call it the Red Room not because of the color of the walls, but because of what 'red' itself means. Red is the color of war, anger, passion, and hate. To be simple, it is a color that symbolizes burning. But of course, you would know all about what it is to burn, Miss Romanov."

From that moment on, Natasha hated the Red Room.

She was constantly reminded of fire every time she entered the ballet studio and stood in thin, white tights, ballet flats, and the matte black uniform of the dancers, watched by the man with dead eyes and the gun, surrounded by mirrors. Mirrors, mirrors, mirrors. Mirrors showing hair that was not auburn, nor copper, but red. Red like fire, red like hot pumping blood while dancing, red like spilled blood from a bullet wound, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding out of a destroyed chest cavity, dripping, dripping, dripping down the mirrors.

After her first kill, Natasha not only knew all about what it was to burn, but what it was like to drown, to drown in blood taken by one's own hand. On the days that the walls of the Red Room looked wet, she did not know whether it was that blood or her own tears. Some days it was both. Soon it was only blood. If there was anything that the Red Room had shown her, it was that feeling sorry for herself would get her killed.

So she stood before that man with the dead eyes, who no longer had the familiar gun in his hand. He had given it to her. Trust. She could have scoffed. She also stood before a man that sat in a spindly chair with a cloth sack tied over his head. The man that the bullet was meant for.

 _He will die if you shoot him or not,_ the sensible voice in the back of her head told her. She listened to that voice so much now, a voice that was not only part of her, but had become her. Natasha raised the gun and inhaled that fear-tinged air. Her senses were alive. This fear brought her to life. It was the only thing capable of such a feat now.

When she pulled the trigger, both men moved. The man with the dead eyes had nodded his approval. She had passed. The man in the chair had jerked as the bullet had taken his life, like his body was rejecting death. Just like her lungs rejected the air she breathed in that room. When she lowered the barrel of the gun, she noticed the fresh stains of red that had splattered against the walls of the Red Room.

Every time Natasha Romanov killed, she burned a little bit more, and piece by piece crumbled to ash.

 _I am not a phoenix,_ she told herself. _A phoenix is reborn. A phoenix heals. I am dying. I kill. But in the end, we are both aflame, are we not? All of us are burning alive without care within the walls of the Red Room._

 **Thank you all for reading! Please feel free to review, or give suggestions for furture chapters. I love feedback, and I also want to make this enjoyable for all of you awesome potatoes out there! Readers have power.**

 **-Fiera the Wisecracking Owl**


	2. Chapter II: Falling with Grace

**_Chapter II: Falling with Grace_**

 ** _-LOKI LAUFEYSON-_**

 _The stars are so beautiful._

It was the only thought that had the ability to penetrate his sorrow. How little time one had to look at them when travelling through the Nine Realms on the Bifrost, as everything managed to blur itself into an endless glowing rainbow nimbus. Now, as Loki of Asgard fell through the blackness and watched the world slowly fall away, he truly saw the stars as they were meant to be seen.

His hand was still warm where it had grasped onto the Allfather's scepter as a lifeline, chafed red, stinging. He supposed that it was right for him to have pain. Pain coupled so nicely with lies.

The ribbon of shimmering light that had been the Bifrost was nearly out of view, as were Asgard's Prince and King. They were mere smudges of bronze, silver, and crimson against the deep blue backdrop of space. The knowledge that Thor, arrogant bullish Thor, and the old fool Odin could barely see him either was very comforting. It was comforting that they could not see the tears long held escape from the corners of his eyes. He thought himself cowardly in that moment, that he was pleased to remain hidden while he was weak, but it felt good to cry. It felt good enough that he no longer berated himself for his feelings.

Breathing in and out, the farther he fell the colder the air was in his lungs, but he welcomed the bitterness. When Thor had taken Mjolnir to the already fragile bridge, the Bifrost had shattered like the stained glass of Midgardian church windows. To be honest, it was Loki's fault that Thor had to destroy the one known pathway between the Realms. But then you would have to branch off into how it was all Odin's fault that Loki even existed. Well, _still_ existed, that is. But that story was complicated, and the memories that such a topic reached into were painful indeed. That pain with those lies...delicious.

What else was the God of Lies supposed to believe? It was a burden, being born into a lie, growing up and molded by them, and finally being told that his entire life had been one, his existence a sham. Loki was reminded of the game the Midgardians played with wooden figures on a checkered board. They called it Chess. There were different figures, one a King, the other a Queen, Knights, Bishops, and Rooks between. Lastly came the Pawns.

Loki was a Pawn. Simply a tool for a greater purpose. He was not who his father had led him to believe. He was no son of Odin, no Prince of Asgard. If the God of Lies were to be honest, he was a monster. His thin lips turned up at the oxymoron, and seeing the portal only feet away, sighed.

The remains of the Bifrost had ripped through space and time hundreds of feet below the young god when he had made the decision to let go. Now the portal was so close that it appeared nearly tangible. How he longed to feel the pulsing energy beneath his fingers. He had only a few more seconds to catch a glimpse of the former glory of his life before he knew no more. So, in his last moments, Loki of Asgard looked to the stars.

The spirits of the stars were a curious lot and were drawn to the brightness of the portal, which had sprung up with the radiance of a dying sun, and the foreign being that plummeted past them towards the portal in a flurry of flashing gold and unfurling emerald. To them, it was like watching an angel being cast from Heaven, the deep green cape of his snapping wildly in the wind like the useless wings of a bird caught in a rainstorm.

It had been hundreds of years since they had seen something like the falling being up close. In the distance were indiscernible shapes that could have been the being's species, which was determined male by the physical structure of the being's form. Females were known to have softer features, more curves than lines, but there was no denying the fine features of the being himself, which although they were more carefully carved possessed a masculine strength.

Short black hair flush against a pale neck, long limbs in freefall, sharp cheekbones stained with something that glistened with a soft sheen when light angled on them. The spirits of the stars could not stop the being from falling and wondered at why he did not fly. The look of disdain on his fair face was enough to make the stars understand that the being wanted to fall. Falling was all that remained.

With a sort of sad smile, the being closed his eyes to the world, letting peace settle over his countenance. Or, at least, a ghostly illusion of peace. It was easy enough to tell that the heart of the mysterious being was still greatly troubled. The being did not know whether or not he would survive passing through the portal, but the rift through space and time gave him the one thing that his former life could not: hope.

As the being was consumed by the remnants of the Bifrost portal, the spirits looked away. Something stirred within them, and the sensation confused them. They supposed that it might be sympathy, but having never felt something of the like before, were entirely unsure.

 _How beautiful are broken things,_ they murmured in their strange mouthless tongue as the portal caved in on itself in a burst of iridescent light, taking the being with it. When the light faded away, nothing remained of the being, nor the portal. Both had vanished without a trace. _How wonderfully and fleetingly beautiful indeed._

 **Ta-da! *dramatic gesture* Part 2 is up! Enjoy the day, readers!**

 **-Fiera the Wisecracking Owl**


	3. Chapter III: To Wait

**_CHAPTER III: To Wait_**

 ** _-Wanda and Pietro Maximoff-_**

 _EASTERN EUROPE. SOKOVIA._

"Wanda! WANDA!"

She could still hear him screaming her name. She could still hear the sound of chaos outside the house, and it took all of her strength to block out the repetitive screaming, not just from her brother, but all of the people outside. The dying people. The explosions, the final blast before all of the voices ceased at once as pain erupted on her forehead and darkness blossomed behind her eyelids. Once unconscious, the ghosts of the screams came back. She was helpless to escape them.

The house was totaled. It had been nothing much, just another humble two-story abode in the neighborhood. Now it had become even less in the matter of seconds. The west side had been blown into rubble. That had been where her parents had slept. Where they had woken up to the shouting outside their window, where they had looked down on the street, where they had yelled to their children to run, to run fast and run hard. The rest had collapsed in on itself, burying the two survivors of the bombing beneath splintered beams and plaster.

Wanda Maximoff knew that she was in pain, that she was trapped, and that without help she was going to die. She was young, far too young to go through what she had. Her legs were pinned at an uncomfortable angle beneath a wooden board, and she was covered in a layer of powdery plaster and filth from the wreckage.

"I'm alive," the ten-year-old girl breathed. "I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive." The fact fascinated her. She repeated the mantra in her head, as though the repetition would make her believe it. Dust caught in her lungs, and her small voice exploded into a violent fit of coughing. The haggard sound was loud enough to block out the ghosts, the cries of the dead.

She had no idea how long she had lain beneath the rubble. It hadn't been long since she had woken up from unconsciousness. Something had struck her head hard enough that it still throbbed, but not enough to deter her from fighting for life. It was something that was ingrained in young blood, the will to live, the urge to fight for life. She didn't even know if her brother had made it out or not. But she was so tired and so scared that perhaps a bit of hope wouldn't hurt.

"Pietro!" she managed between coughs. Her own voice was scratchy and weak when it gasped out his name. It hurt to speak with chapped lips. _"Pietro!"_

A few yards away, something shifted causing debris to displace itself in a crash.

"Wanda?"

She thought she heard his voice. The voice of her twin was so familiar to her, though, that she might have been dreaming it up, just like the voices of the rest of the dead, had it not cried out a second time. "Wanda! Wanda, I'm over here!" There was more scrambling, much more frantic, and the voice got ever closer and closer. Not even a fevered dream could sound so similar to Pietro Maximoff; brother, unfortunate twin, and extreme booger. In Wanda's opinion, of course.

"I'm stuck!" she wailed as soon as the coughing subsided.

"I'll get you out," her twin promised. He sounded strange, having to speak through a few feet of wreckage. "Can you move?"

Wanda turned her face toward the shaft of light that pierced through the first layer of debris, that she just happened to be lying right under.

"Wanda, can you move?" He was more urgent. Nervous.

"My legs are stuck," she said in a small voice. Then she added, "Where are we?"

Pietro began to drag some of the larger shattered beams out from on top of her. "The only part of the house that didn't...didn't blow up. I think we're under the kitchen, and the stairs are still kind of there, so I think we can get out by ourselves."

"When did you become so bossy?" Wanda grumbled. She struggled once again to free her legs, and something slipped loose. Her left foot was free, bearing a torn up sock.

"Because I'm the big brother."

"Only by five minutes!" Even cold, tired, and dirty, Wanda was not one to let her brother overshadow her. It was a twin thing, to constantly battle for equality. Even if death lay in wait close by.

"And Mom and Dad told me to take care of you after they told us to run."

Wanda went silent. Something shut down inside of her heart. The warmth was gone, and something cold and hard was replacing it. She stopped struggling to get her second foot free. The thing that scared her the most was that Pietro had gone quiet as well. Then Wanda voiced the only thought that filled every corner of her body.

"Pietro?" she whispered. Her brother had managed to pull enough rubble out of the way that she would be able to climb towards the light if she only managed to free her foot. His round boyish face with the messy dark hair and the pale blue eyes that so resembled her own appeared over the hole he'd managed to uncover.

"Yeah?"

"I'm scared."

Silence. Then a soft whisper in reply.

"Me too."

"I want Mom." Her voice was thick.

"I know. Can you try to get your foot out?" He was trying to be strong for her. She could tell. She wanted so badly to tell him that it would be all right. But she also didn't want to make a false promise.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

"I think that once you're out, I might not be so scared," Pietro admitted

Wanda gave another tug of her foot. Seeing him pushed the cold back a little bit. Whether by sheer luck or a miracle, the wood dislodged enough that she was free. Now all she had to do was climb the staircase of broken pieces of her former life towards the sky. Towards Pietro. Towards a fragment of hope.

 **Major thanks and cookies to all you fabulous readers...you're all darlings.**

 **-Fiera the Wisecracking Owl**


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